


The Razor's Edge

by catawhumpus (ironmermaidens)



Series: Crown AU [3]
Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Gen, Master/Pet Dynamics, and not killing them instantly with it, compulsion to obey, dubcon body modification (shaving), dubcon touching (non-sexual), hc crown au, i only did enough research on medieval shaving to decide that i don't care if this is inaccurate, its about the intimacy of holding a blade to another persons throat, threat of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmermaidens/pseuds/catawhumpus
Summary: The King takes his Consort’s grooming into his own hands.
Series: Crown AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000731
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	The Razor's Edge

"Sit."

The Consort sits. The stool isn't plain, but it isn't comfortable either. Just decorated enough to be fitting for his King and Queen's chambers. Rigid enough for the Consort to remember his place beneath his betters. He swallows against a lump in his throat, and wills his pounding heart to slow its beat.

He feels fingers beneath his chin, and swallows again. His King stands behind him, out of sight, but not out of mind. Not with his torso pressed up against the Consort's back, not with the way his fingers raise the Consort's chin up, his head back until he's staring up into his King's frigid, blue eyes. His King stares back impassively. The Consort swallows a third time in anticipation. 

He feels the cool lather of shaving soap against his cheek, the itch of the bristles as his King begins to rub the lather in tight circles down his jawline. The King's eyes track the brush as he works, and the Consort's track the King's. He nearly shudders when the King pulls the brush away from his face to load it with more lather. 

The silence ties his stomach in knots. He hardly ever exchanged words with the attendants that usually handled his grooming, but this was anything but the usual. The Consort studied the set of his King's jaw, and wondered if it was tighter today than it had been yesterday, or if his anxious mind was playing tricks on him. He tries to recount the day, tries to summon something, anything, that may have angered his King, and blinks tears away the more he adds to his list of offenses.

He jumps when he feels the bristles of the brush press against his neck, feels shame warming his face when his King clucks his tongue at him. "I—I apologize..."

"Hush, pet," the King responds, and the Consort snaps his mouth shut. 

The King works the lather into his neck, across the other cheek, over his chin and upper lip. The Consort remains silent, though deep inside he feels a long whine growing. His King's face remains unreadable, giving no clues as to his mood, his intentions, and the Consort feels lightheaded with how hard his heart bangs against his ribs. 

The King glances away, and the Consort hears the bowl of shaving soap being set aside on the table, hears the  _ shhick _ of a razor being picked up from the same surface, and inhales sharply at the sound of it. His King's eyes return to him, his expression no more scrutable than before, and he lets the breath back out, shaky and slow. 

He feels the edge of the blade against his cheek and stops breathing entirely. He feels the blade dragged down, feels the pull of the blade against his facial hair as it was cut, and feels no pain to accompany it. He takes another breath. The blade pulls down along his cheek, lower and lower until he feels it against the edge of his jaw. The King pulls the blade away from his skin, and he hears a splash as it’s rinsed. His fingers dig into the upholstery on the stool, and he can feel his nails scraping against the wood beneath it. He feels his King's breath where his head rests against his stomach and it's steady, doesn't shake as his own does, and he can't parse whether it's from calm or from resolve. He can't parse what his King plans to do with the blade next.

He feels it again, wet and cool against his neck, just above the band of his collar, and can't help the way his stomach twists and his breath catches. He hears a soft  _ shhh _ from above him, and it reveals as little to the Consort about his King's motivation as the hardness of his eyes and steadiness of his hands does. He presses his nails into the stool's edge again and hears them—feels them—creak under the pressure.

The blade pulls up his neck and for a moment the Consort feels as if his life has ended. He can't breathe, he tastes copper, his fingers and toes feel numb, his heart is arrested in his chest as bile rises in his throat. The only thing keeping him from toppling back is the press of his King against his back.

He feels another pull of the blade, feels the way it cuts his hairs at the root, and slowly feeling returns to his limbs. His eyes flutter shut, and he tries to remind himself the wetness coating his skin is only the shaving soap. In his mind's eye the next pull of the blade up his neck is eased by slick, red blood that he chokes and sputters on. 

He hears another splash and his eyes flutter back open, a shiver raking through him as the realization hits him that he is still alive, that his blood still pumps safely through his veins rather than spill over his linen shirt, that his lungs still fill with air, and that the taste of copper on his tongue was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. 

The Consort feels his King take hold of his chin, his grip firm yet gentle, and lets his eyes slip closed again at the press of the blade against his unshaven cheek. He revels in the drag of the blade against his skin, his King's fingers manipulating him as he works. He admires the care and attention his King gives him, the silence accompanying his concentration a comfort. He's sure his King is doing a better job grooming him than his attendants did. He was intimately familiar with the planes of his Consort's face. 

He hears another splash in the bucket, and startles out of his revere as his King's body pulls away from him, and he nearly falls back off the stool. A hand between his shoulder blades keeps him upright, and he feels another deep flush across his cheeks as his King steps in front of him, the hand on his back moving to his shoulder, keeping him firmly in place where he sat.

His King's fingers slide under his chin again, pulling his face up just enough to inspect the shave, pushing and pulling his Consort's head this way and that as he examined him for flaws. He turns his Consort's head straight forward again, tilted up so his cool blue eyes may meet his Consort's crimson red once more. The Consort feels his King's thumb pull at his bottom lip, and lets his mouth fall open ever so slightly in response.

"Beautiful," the King says at least. "Such a good boy for me, my Prince."

The Consort's breath hitches in his throat, and he responds, "Thank you, my King."


End file.
